


Cornflower Blue

by HerotheHardWay



Series: When Lockwood met Cubbins [2]
Category: Lockwood & Co. - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: Cuteness and fluff, How Lockwood & Co got started, M/M, Pre-Series, how George and Lockwood met, there's kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-05 06:53:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11008230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HerotheHardWay/pseuds/HerotheHardWay
Summary: Or, How Lockwood and George met. Lockwood is trying to figure out how to jumpstart his life again.  That's when he meets George Cubbins.





	Cornflower Blue

**Author's Note:**

> This is an add-on to  Love, and other pesky things  , but you can read it as a stand-alone. Characters belong to Jonathan Stroud. Thanks to @readingeveryday123 over at tumblr dot com for encouraging me to actually write this scene.

Today he would do something. He would. Anthony just had to convince himself to get out of bed first. It was one of those grey days that there seemed to be so many of lately. He didn’t know if there had been this many grey days _before_. But now, every time he bothered to open the curtains, dark heavy clouds loomed in the sky.

There was a sharp rap at the front door. Antony wasn’t expecting anyone; Gravedigger had come on Tuesday for his weekly rapier instruction, and the week’s groceries weren’t due until tomorrow, so he pulled the covers over his head and tried to fall back asleep.

He still couldn’t believe he’d been fired, and that Gravedigger still liked him enough to keep up his swordplay training. _I can’t have you endangering my other agents, Anthony,_ he’d said, eyes sad, _You’re the best damn agent I’ve ever seen, but you don’t follow my directions, you put other people at risk, you’re reckless. I’m sorry._ But he’d been impressed with Anthony’s swordsmanship, and wanted to see him improve, so every Tuesday morning they had lessons.

_Knock knock knock knock!_

They weren’t going away. Had he left a light on somewhere in the house? Possibly it was the next-door neighbor with another fruitcake. Anthony was sure that whoever it was, they’d go away eventually. Unless it was…

 Anthony sat bolt upright, fumbled with his dressing robe, and stumbled down the stairs, squinting against the light coming through the windows. He perfunctorily ran a hand through his hair, hoped he didn’t look too horrible, and yanked the door open. The hand that had been about to knock on the door yet again paused right before it hit him in the mouth.

 Flo Bones stood on his doorstep, caked with muck and who knew what else. He didn’t care. “Flo!” Lockwood crowed, hugging her tightly. He stepped back a few seconds later.

 “Heya Locky,” Flo said, a grin appearing on her grimy face. She crossed her arms and examined him with a critical air. “You tackle all your houseguests? Might want to rework that policy if I was you. Christ, you look like you need a bath worse n’me, and that’s saying something.”

 “Oh, uh, sorry about that. What brings you to this neck of the woods? And,” Lockwood paused, puzzled, “how did you know where I live?”

 “Can’t tell ya _all_ my secrets, eh Lockwood?” Flo winked, then barged into 35 Portland Row. “Fix me up with a cuppa, will you?” she threw over her shoulder.

 Lockwood stood staring out onto his now empty front steps, blinked, and shut the door firmly, following Flo into the kitchen.

 Flo was reclining in a kitchen chair, rocking it back dangerously on two legs. Lockwood quickly put the kettle on, and prepped two cups, then sat down across from her. “Really though Flo. What’s the purpose of you visiting me? Is it,” he said delicately, “to, er, use my facilities?”

 Flo positively cackled. “Oooh you’re a real riot Locky! Me, a bath? I’d lose every bit of credibility I’ve ever gotten, the second I show up to trade with a shiny pink face.” She paused. “Actually, I just got wind there was a whole batch of news articles just uncovered over at the Archives. Thought it was your thing, so I figured I’d drop you a line.”

 “And why, exactly, do I care about a load of old newspapers?” Lockwood asked, annoyed. He’d been having such a great day wallowing in self-loathing, and now Flo was ruining it. “I’m not an _agent_ , Flo, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

 “Yeah, sure, whatever. We both know you got the strongest Sight this side of the Thames. Or on the other side for that matter.”

 “I can’t work for another Agency, Flo. They care far too much about procedure, and besides, I can’t imagine anyone’d hire me without a recommendation from Gravedigger. DEPRAC’s useless, and I think I’d rather expire than work for the Night Watch.” Lockwood poured their tea, and handed one cup to Flo.

 “All I’m saying, is you could have a great setup. Your own house…well, even Fittes and Rottwell started out small, you know? Anyway, thought you’d like to check out these articles. Word is that they have info on, well, on your parents deaths.”

 Lockwood felt like he’d just been dunked in icewater, and he struggled to keep his face neutral. “I didn’t know my family business was the source of gossip among relic-men and women.” He finally said cautiously, with an effort at a smile. He’d been told that his smiles could get him anywhere.

 “Eh, a bit. Don’t worry your pretty head over it too much.” Flo tipped her head back and finished off her tea, then stood up. “Thanks for the tea, and you’ll be bringing a bag of licorice next time you come ‘n see me, got it?”

 “Sure thing, Flo.” Lockwood responded in a daze. He heard the front door open, then close. He took a deep breath. In through his mouth, out through his nose. In…out. Repeat. His parents had been gone for years. In…out. Why was he having a crisis? He could do this. If he could pull his life together after the tragic deaths of his family members _twice_ , he could get a grip right now. In…out. His heartbeat eventually slowed to a normal rate. He’d go to the Archives and look through the new articles.

 An hour later, Anthony was showered and dressed and feeling much more human. He pulled the long dark coat he loved so much out of the coat closet and slipped it on. He hesitated at the umbrella stand, which mostly contained umbrellas, but also contained a rather outdated rapier. The one he practiced with, and had carried when he’d been working for Skyes, the nice one, was downstairs in the room he’d recently converted to a practice room. Anthony was well aware that he wasn’t an agent any more. But it made him feel safer since Jessica’d died. Like he had his own back, even if nobody else did. He strapped the rapier to his belt, and walked out of the house for the first time in…well, the first time in a while.

 

* * *

 

Anthony stood at the entrance to the Archives. He’d been in here a couple times, but that had been years ago. He thought they’d repainted. He repeated a mantra in his head. Confidence is key. They won’t know you’re not really an agent unless you tell them. So he strode up to one of the Archivists, cleared his throat, and bedazzled the middle-aged woman with his best Anthony Lockwood SmileTM. “Good afternoon, ma’am.”

 The woman went a bit pink. “Well hello there, good afternoon and welcome to the Archives! How can I help you?”

 “I was hoping you could direct me to the new newspaper articles they’ve just uncovered? I hear they’re absolutely fascinating.” Lockwood said, picking up one of those mini pencils that tend to be found in libraries and archives and such, and tucking it behind his ear.

 “Oh yes, of course! Just follow me, er—“

 “Lockwood. Anthony Lockwood.” He supplied.

 “All right Mr. Lockwood, come right this way.” The archivist led him through an arching doorway into a long hall, with many doors leading to various parts of the library, Lockwood supposed. “You know, you’re the second person to request to see these new documents! Funny, really, as they’re pretty dull from what I’ve seen. Another young gentleman, just an hour ago. I’m sure you’ll see him in the new arrivals room. Here we are.” She stopped at a doorway and directed him inside. “Enjoy those new documents!” And away the archivist bustled.

 

 The first thing Lockwood noticed about the room he found himself in, was the general impression of quietness and organization. The room was well lit, with shelves containing books, file folders, and cardboard tubes, all marked with coded stickers.

 The second thing Lockwood noticed, was that amongst this atmosphere of organization, there was what appeared to be a small hurricane of papers going on at one of the reading tables.

 “Oh, bother.” Came a voice from inside the hurricane. The papers slowly settled onto the floor and table, and a sandy haired, stocky boy in a smart silver jacket picked himself up off the floor and began feeling around on the table, locating a pair of round-rimmed glasses a moment later. He caught sight of Lockwood, who had remained at the entrance to the room, and squinted in his direction. “Oh, hello.”

 The boy’s eyes were extremely blue. Stunningly blue. Cornflower blue? Lockwood fumbled for an appropriate metaphor for their exact shade and glint. He was generally rather cute, if Lockwood was being honest, and he _was_ being honest. He shook himself. He could ogle the boy later, since they would obviously be studying in the same room. “Do you need a hand with that?” he asked.

 “That’d be nice, thanks.” The boy said, sliding his glasses on and straightening them. “I’m George Cubbins.” He stuck out his hand rather stiffly. “Fittes Agency.” He tacked on, apparently as an afterthought.

 Lockwood was possibly a bit too eager to shake the proffered hand, but he ignored this fact. He smiled. “Anthony Lockwood. I go by Lockwood.” They shook, and then Lockwood bent to start picking up the many scattered papers lying around. “I must have walked in right as you were tripping,” he remarked as he gathered them into a stack.

 “Oh, well, yes. The floors can be a little uneven in some of these rooms, you know.” George Cubbins responded, also making an effort to neaten up his papers. Lockwood privately thought that the floors looked quite smooth, but he wasn’t about to correct someone he’d just met. He glanced down at the materials in his hand, and raised his eyebrow in surprise.

 “”The Source Problem: Are Fire Disposals Necessary?” Are you doing some kind of history project research on sources, then?” Lockwood asked curiously.

 “Yeah,” George Cubbins said distractedly as he started shuffling the papers around, putting them in order.

 “Is it for a case you’re on?”

 “No, just for fun.”

 “You’re researching the, uh, source of Sources just for fun? I’m impressed.” Lockwood grinned at Cubbins.

 Cubbins turned faintly pink. “Yes, well, all that stuff interests me. My current project is attempting to synthesize all the information we’ve gathered in the past 50 years on the how’s and why’s of Sources, particularly the mechanics behind their ability to constrain ghosts, and why certain objects are chosen, _especially_ given that sometimes the Source is a possession of the deceased, and sometimes it’s the remains themselves. At the moment, I’m focusing on the early stuff, you know, back when the Problem first started. But I’m hoping to do a full analysis up to the present. It’s really fascinating stuff, especially when you consider—oh there I go again. You probably don’t want to hear all that.” Cubbins fell silent abruptly, and reached for the papers Lockwood had managed to straighten.

 “Well I can’t say that’s my area of expertise exactly, but it sounds like a promising area of research.” Lockwood managed. Honestly, he’d barely understood half of what Cubbins had just said, but he didn’t want to seem like an uninformed idiot. “Have you happened to see any articles about the deaths of two researchers of, er, international ghost culture?” He waited with bated breath.

 “Hmm. Yes, actually, a few.” Cubbins turned towards the shelves and started paging through a couple file folders. “Ah yes. Here we are, take a look. Not exactly cheerful stuff, but then I guess you’re the one looking for it, so you must know already. Here you go.” He dumped the folder into Lockwood’s arms, went immediately to his chair, switched on a desk lamp and became instantly engrossed in the top article of his pile.

 Lockwood looked around the room. There were a few tables. If he sat at Cubbins’ table, he would probably get to talk to him some more. On the other hand, a farther away table would enable him to do some quality ogling without being noticed.

 Cubbins apparently noticed his indecision, because he spoke up, without looking away from his reading, “We’ve introduced ourselves and you’ve helped me with my papers. I think we can share a table at this point.” So Lockwood plopped himself down in a chair opposite Cubbins and began looking through the papers in his folder. Unfortunately, the proximity did not result in any conversation, and Cubbins left a couple hours later with the farewell, “Well, see you around, Lockwood.”

 

* * *

 

 It was a few months before Lockwood ran across George Cubbins again. And their second meeting was entirely coincidental.

 Lockwood was just out for his morning walk to the grocery to get more milk, and when he walked out of the store he almost immediately collided with someone. “Oof—sorry—“ he managed, trying to keep his grip on the milk and not lose his balance.

 “So sorry, I’m pretty clumsy sometimes…Hey, you’re that agent from the Archives!” The person said. Lockwood looked up, and there was George Cubbins, once again straightening his glasses, and looking as adorable as ever.

 “Cubbins? It’s been a while. Well, it’s nice to see that you Fittes agents don’t just live in your uniforms.” That didn’t come out quite right. “I mean, you looked quite nice in silver. It compliments your eyes.” Stupid, stupid, what was he saying? “But, of course you look great out of uniform as well…” Lockwood trailed off, unsure of how he’d managed to botch this so completely.

 Cubbins looked awkward. “Actually, I don’t work at Fittes anymore. Sorry to disappoint.”

 “Oh!” Lockwood didn’t know where to go from there. They stood for a minute on the sidewalk. A lavender bunch lying on the ground outside the grocery was slowly smoldering, having started when someone discarded a cigarette directly on top of it, and the smoke was making Lockwood’s eyes water. He wiped them with his sleeve, and thankfully Cubbins was still standing there when he resurfaced. “Um, Cubbins, I don’t know where you’re headed, but do you want to come over for a cup of tea? I live quite close to here.”

 Cubbins blinked. This was obviously not what he had expected Lockwood to say, but he recovered quickly. “That sounds nice. I don’t exactly have other plans, what with being unemployed and all. And call me George, incidentally.”

 Lockwood nodded, and they started off in the direction of Portland Row. “So, what made you leave Fittes?” he asked. George immediately jumped into a dramatic retelling of his underappreciated skills, the unfairness of the Fittes evaluation criteria, and his final day at the Agency. By the time they arrived at 35 Portland Row, Lockwood was in stitches.

 “You—haha—you _stole_ a _ghost jar?_ —ahaha—from Fittes Agency! Whatever possessed you?” he wheezed.

 “Not a ghost, if that’s what you’re asking.” George shrugged, a small smile on his face. Lockwood got the feeling that George did not smile very often, so he considered this to be an accomplishment. They entered Lockwood’s house, and spent a good ten minutes dawdling in the entry, as George examined the various artifacts on display.

 “This is _fascinating_. Just think! People have been using the same techniques we’ve developed for centuries. The implications…”

 “Do you want tea?” Lockwood jumped in. “I think I have some biscuits somewhere, let me hunt around.” They arrived in the kitchen.

 While Lockwood started tea, George settled at the table. They kept talking, more about what it was like working at the Fittes Agency, then about Lockwood’s recent improvement in the swordsmanship department. Of course George wanted a demonstration, and after quite a while of talking, and demonstrating, and more talking, Lockwood realized he’d completely forgotten to turn the stove on. George was by far the most interesting person Lockwood had ever met, and certainly the most enthusiastic about ghost-related research. As he managed to actually make the tea, George examined the kitchen tablecloth. “I see you’ve been adding some embellishments to this tablecloth,” he said, the question clearly evident in his tone.

 “Oh that’s my thinking cloth.” Lockwood said as he poured two cups and carried them to the table. “It’s really just an old tablecloth, but it helps me organize my thoughts. Plus, it gives me something to do while I’m eating breakfast.” He added, without mentioning that he started writing on the tablecloth because he lived alone, and his closest friend was a grimy relic-woman named _Flo Bones_.

 George was peering intently at one corner of the cloth. “What agency did you say you were a part of again?” he asked.

 “Oh, well actually I’m not part of any agency at the moment.” Hopefully George didn’t call him a fraud for carrying around a rapier.

 George did not call him a fraud. He actually said, “Really! So this idea sketched out here, for Lockwood & Co, isn’t a reality yet.”

 “Not yet. But I know that I can make it happen,” Lockwood said earnestly, leaning forward. George looked straight into his eyes, and Lockwood was struck yet again by how blue they were, even behind glasses. “You have really pretty eyes.” He blurted, and then jerked back, mortified. He was sure he was as red as a tomato.

 George was positively scarlet. “Thank you.” He mumbled. “You have really cute hair.”

 “Um, thank you.”

 They sat in silence for a full minute, before George tentatively spoke. “I kind of really want to kiss you right now. That’s weird, right? We don’t really know each other, and, um—“

 “I kind of really want to kiss you too.” Lockwood interrupted. He didn’t want there to be a misunderstanding about something as crucially important as him very much wanting to kiss George.

 “Ok.” George took a deep breath. “I’ve, never, er, I’ve never kissed anyone before.” He said.

 “Me either,” Lockwood breathed. He felt a little lightheaded. “So we’re even.” He leaned forward. George leaned forward. They stared at each other. When they were so close Lockwood could feel George’s breath on his lips, he snorted. George cracked a smile. Lockwood started laughing, and soon both of them were giggling helplessly. “Okay okay. Hah.” He took a deep breath. “Sorry, I was a bit nervous.” George took off his glasses. This time, Lockwood brought his hand to the back of George’s neck, gently pulled him towards him, closed his eyes, and pressed his lips against George’s.

George’s lips were warm, and very soft, and when he opened his mouth a little, Lockwood opened his too and angled his head a bit more, and then they were really kissing.

After an indeterminate number of minutes, they broke away from each other. George blinked owlishly, then said, “That was fun. Kissing is fun.”

Lockwood grinned, a real one this time. “Yeah, it is. Want to do some more, then?”

“Definitely.” George smiled, and leaned in.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! First time I've written not from Lucy's POV so hopefully it worked for you. I hc Lockwood as being super charismatic but also kind of insecure, with a huge dollop of fake-it-til-you-make-it confidence to smooth all the cracks over. I'm over on tumblr  here , and I really really love it when y'all comment and kudo. Fuels my writing car yo ;)


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